


Regarding Handy Techniques

by BleedingTypewriter



Series: Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [6]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Demonstrating, Edging, Established Relationship, Frotting, Grinding, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24173311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter
Summary: Keith teaches Lance how to take his time with himself.Part of a series of edited/updated threads from Twitter.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744681
Kudos: 238





	Regarding Handy Techniques

**Author's Note:**

> "Regarding Twitter" is a series of my favourite threads updated, lightly edited, and tagged. All original versions are available on my account [here.](https://twitter.com/BleedingType/status/1199399029395709952) Length and tone varies as Twitter is where I tend to play and explore.

Lance is used to getting off quick. He has four siblings, so his introduction to his own anatomy had been relegated to hasty bathroom breaks and late night, carefully quiet exploration.

And then, in space, there’s so much to deal with; so much he refuses to give up. Just because he has to help save the universe, doesn’t mean he has to give up his skin regime, or his hair masks, or his Monday night manicures. So he doesn’t spend _every_ waking hour thinking about sex, no matter what people assume. Get off his back about it.

Aside from that, he finds it less than comforting knowing he might be interrupted at any given moment—during any given _activity_ —by an alarm and a call to their lions. He shudders at the thought of fastening armour over a semi.

So. He tends to be quick about things.

Keith may have grown up practically privacy-less in foster care, but he benefits from being a late bloomer. He explores himself after he’s had the bulk of his sex ed classes and, more importantly, after the complications of foster siblings and Garrison roommates. Out there in the desert, with nothing but time and pent up energy, Keith had become accustomed to going to absolute town on himself. He’d laid on that rickety bed in the middle of nowhere and not given a single shit as the springs squeaked obscenely, and learned to take his time.

And then in space.

Well.

Keith trains.

And he “broods.”

(That’s what the team assumes he does with his time in his room, anyway.)

(Incidentally, he often trains right after he “broods,” just to make sure he looks appropriately tense—not loose and relieved, the way he feels.)

Between the two of them, several expected things happen:

Keith is stubbourn, but he’s not _dumb_. He tells Lance so the first time they end up all tangled together on the training room floor, the other’s expression literally and figuratively floored.

(“You did not see this coming,” Lance insists as he strips his sweaty shirt off and grinds down into Keith’s lap.

Keith just smirks. “Think this is the first time you’ve gotten me hard?”

Lance tries not to pout, and spits into his palm before he sticks it down Keith’s pants.)

Lance waits until Keith is doing that _thing_ —pulling off him post-blow job with tight lips and an exploratory tongue, making him shiver and twitch and gasp-laugh—to look down into his eyes and stroke his thumb over one cheek and murmur, “Can I call you my boyfriend, now?”

(Keith pops off and looks up at him, smileless. “Seriously?” he asks, incredulous. “ _Now_?” And his glare is ruined somewhat by the spit on his lips and the messiness of his hair and the fact that he surges up before Lance can answer to kiss him long and sloppy.)

And then they get to the unexpected things:

Keith doesn’t drink the milk after he eats cereal. He finds it too sweet, and though Lance thinks there’s something seriously wrong with him (who has taste buds like that?) he can’t bring himself to balk when he reaps the sugary spoils.

Lance, despite his epic skin routine, takes fast showers. He can wash off his overnight mask, squeeze in two more steps on his face, _and_ exfoliate his entire body in five minutes flat. (“Siblings,” he explains. “Rachel used to steal all my left socks when I used up the hot water.”)

When Keith asks to watch Lance get himself off, it lasts all of two minutes. It’s a blurry fist and a clenched jaw and a little grunt and sigh as he comes into a tissue. (To be fair, Keith does admit, after a few hours, that his intoning, “That’s it?” was probably a little insensitive, and Lance may have been justified, just a bit, in kicking him out of the bedroom for the night.)

He takes a different approach the next time.

“Just watch me, first,” Keith says, and stretches himself out over their bed, naked skin pebbling. It’s a little weird, Lance sitting in a chair facing him, nude and hard and hunched over, but the way those blue eyes drag down the length of him has Keith settling quickly.

Before Lance, Keith’d had (barring a few ill-fated experiences) only himself to satisfy his own craving for human touch. He’d been able to tamp it down, control it for the most part, but he’s still human (or, at least, half). He’d still needed _some_ kind of physical outlet. So he’s well acquainted with the curve of his own calves, the divot in his thigh between quad and hamstring, the canyon of his hips, the terrain of his abs, pecs, nipples, shoulders…

He spends a minute sucking on his own fingers before he finally gets to work on his nipples properly, circling and teasing and ( _finally_ ) pinching until he’s arching up into his own touch. He waits until they’re almost too sensitive, then takes his time running back over the flesh of his chest (running a finger along the impression between his pecs), stomach (dipping a pinky into his bellybutton to feel the delicate twinge), legs (pawing at his inner thighs with the heady knowledge that it would tickle, were it someone else’s hands). He waits until he can feel the thrum of increased blood flow before he moves back to his nipples, tweaking gentler and delighting in the increased sensitivity. He feels himself pulse between his legs; his cock bounces in search of sensation he’s not willing to give it yet.

“Fuck…”

Keith hasn’t forgotten about Lance, but his husky expletive has him glancing his way again. He’s even more hunched over than before, cock in his fist looking red at the tip and already ready to blow, eyes trained on the spot where Keith is borderline torturing himself.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Lance.”

Lance’s hand freezes, squeezed tight right below the head, foreskin puckered and glistening. “What?”

Keith tugs a little harder; makes himself gasp; twitches again between his legs.

“Don’t you dare come. Not until I do.”

Lance’s groan is garbled and just a little bitter.

But all the same, he leaves his cock alone.

Keith takes the opportunity to study it as he takes his own in hand, fingers wrapped in a loose ring, just the barest hint of what it is he really wants. He knows the exact weight and texture of Lance’s cock; knows what it tastes like and what it smells like and what it looks like when it hardens impossibly further in that split second before it comes. And yet it’s a different thing altogether, looking at it from a distance, appreciating its aesthetic value and considering how that value can get him off.

He strokes himself slow; gives an aborted thrust into his hand; lets go of himself and lets his thighs tense and relax. Lance’s hips mirror his, jerking upward against nothing. God, he’s _so hard_ ; so clearly, painfully turned on as he watches.

The thought has Keith wrapping a hand around his own dick again, starting up a slow rhythm. Lance is so staunchly selfless when it comes to Keith’s orgasms, desperate to please, to wring him out hard and fast so they can dissolve into frenzy together. Of fucking _course_ he’d be hard enough to leak off the back of watching Keith get off exactly the way he wants to. The temptation to speed up almost wins out, but he breathes through it and keeps to his sluggish pace.

Up. Pause. Down. Pause.

Keith moans, wanton and strained. He circles one abused nipple and then the other, but refuses to give in and pinch them properly again. 

“God, you’re fuckin’ _mean_ to yourself…” Lance sounds awed. Keith can see the muscles in his legs and arms working, tensing up as he restrains himself. He likes the way they shift; the way the light scatters the tiniest bit on his dark hair and makes his eyes look stupid blue. He slows down even further, but allows his hips to start working in tandem with his hand.

Up.

Pause.

Down.

Pause.

_Pause_. It had made him feel vain, at first, marvelling at the feel of his own arousal, but it had passed with practice. It’s not awkward, now, stopping mid-stroke to feel the trivialities in the way he pulses; the way his cock resists itself; settles a little harder than it was. The pleasure is tight, pulling at his sternum like it’s trying to get it to touch his hips. It doesn’t jolt through his limbs, but ends up tingling in his palms and the soles of his feet anyway.

His toes curl.

The sensation against his nipples becomes too much. He moves his hand up to rest on his own throat instead. He pretends it’s Lance’s; looks over at him to make the fantasy a little more solid. He can tell in his expression that he’s thinking about the same thing.

They moan in unison. Lance sounds so entranced it has Keith parsing through the pulse of his own cock again.

“Touch yourself,” Keith requests.

The white of Lance’s teeth is pretty against the skin of his lip. “Can’t,” he says. “Swear I’m gonna blow as soon as I do…”

“Not if you take your time.”

Up.

Pause.

Down.

Pause.

_Pause._

_Upupup_.

Watching the way Lance tries so hard to follow his pace has Keith close. He wonders if he’s waited too long, but the way Lance’s hips protest the tempo makes him double down. “That’s it,” he whispers. “That’s _it_ , Lance…”

“This is…” Lance swallows; licks his lips with a viscous noise; swallows again. “I don’t know...fuck, holy fuck, holy _fuck_ …”

His wrist stutters; he brings his other hand over to thrust up into two stacked fists. He speeds up despite himself.

But then, that might be Keith. His own strokes have gotten shorter, tighter, still indulgent but just the tiniest bit faster. _Fuck_ , they’re not going to make it if he keeps up this way, and he wants Lance to see...to _feel_...

“C’mere,” Keith slurs. “Quick, fuck, _please_ …”

Lance is on him between one heaving breath and the next, hovering on all fours, adjusting his hips instinctively when Keith takes them both in hand.

Up.

Pause.

Down.

Pause.

A hand on Lance’s hip to stop him prematurely thrusting. They’re trembling so hard it hurts where their joints bump together. Their breath is a stuttered cacophony. Keith feels his orgasm growing like it’s snaking down his spine from the crown of his head, pooling just in front of his tailbone and radiating down the insides of his legs.

“Keith, ‘m so close, I need you to–”

It’s a struggle to keep his hips at bay, but Keith manages; slows his already agonizing pace and watches Lance shake free another bead of sweat on his forehead.

“It’s okay, just…”

Keith reaches up and cups his jaw and looks right into his face so they can watch each other go to pieces in detail. “Just _let yourself_ …”

He starts to come before he even realizes it, already riding so high that the first pulse feels like just another plateau to hover at. And then, like the delayed boom after a firework, the feeling hits: the prickling euphoria, the release and rapid recoiling of his muscles, the static sick jolt through his whole body as he moans and quivers and comes and comes and _comes_.

And strokes up.

Pauses.

Down.

_Pauses_.

“Please,” Lance chokes.

There’s come dripping down over one dark, peaked nipple.

Keith isn’t sure if he’s still coming, or if these are just aftershocks.

“Please, I’m gonna…!”

Up. Down. Up.

Lance comes.

He sounds almost like he’s sobbing through it, breath skittering and jumping, falling onto Keith’s chest so his grip turns awkward (and he still refuses to stop, because how can he when Lance is shivering so pretty all over him like this?). Keith watches intently the play of his shoulder blades and the knobs of his spine as he writhes and leaves a downright pornographic mess between them.

They pant until the air between them smells of dry spit. Lance is heavy, and digging into Keith’s belly with his bony ribs. He doesn’t mind. He cards his free hand through damp brown hair and waits for the feeling to come back to his legs.

“I will grudgingly admit,” Lance mutters into his chest, “The ‘that’s it’ may have been warranted.”

Keith chuckles, and it jostles the weight of Lance’s head back and forth, like he’s being nuzzled. “No, it wasn’t. Not yet, anyway.”

He feels Lance blink; a butterfly kiss just left of his heart. “Not...yet…?”

“This was a nice introduction, but wait until we do it this way with _toys_. Then you’ll see how ‘that’s it’ your jerking off is.”

It’ll take him a few minutes to muster up the energy, but Lance _will_ slap at his arm and call him a dick for that. For the moment, though, Keith just savours his groan, and his laugh, and the lazy kiss he drops on his collarbone.


End file.
